Ethereal Nonsense
by lexophile42
Summary: So, we're left with the Joker hanging over Gotham with an armed SWAT team approaching, ready to fire. What next? With Heath gone, who's to say? That's where I come in. We'll journey through the Joker's "afterlife" and meet some old friends along the way.
1. Issue 1: After the Fall

**Ethereal Nonsense**

_Issue #1: "After the Fall"_

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**Disclaimer:** Batman and all related themes and characters are the property of DC Comics. I will not claim ownership (no matter how much I would love to) of any of the characters, especially the Joker and the associated Heath Ledger (RIP).

* * *

**Bang.**

Nothing.

**Bang.**

More nothing.

**Bang.**

He fell.

And then there was nothing.

"That's a whole lotta nothing..." the battered man smirked, reflecting quietly as he rubbed at the oozing gash at the back of his head and looked about at his nonexistent surroundings.

Nothing.

Vast expances of absolute nothing.

Way to much nothing for him, the Prince of Pranks.

"I'm a picker... I'm a grinner... I'm a lover, I'm a sinner..." he mumbled tunelessly to himself as he picked himself up from the nothingness beneath him and attempted to walk a bit in the nothingness before him. "I'm a joker... smoker... midnight toker..."

There was a slight echo. His empty words reverberated back to him, smothering him with his own hoarse voice. He assumed the voice was his own. After all, whose else could it be, if not his own? There was simply nothing. No one. No where. No thing.

"So... **this** is hell?" he shouted at the blank space, throwing his arms out in frustration and despair. "What happened to all that eternal spiritual torture? Fire? Pain? Damnation? **You promised**!"

He continued trudging through the nothing, his shoulders hunched forward in determination, his cold eyes fixed on the nothing beneath his feet. Quickly he grew bored with the concept of nothing and took to, instead of shouting at the nothing, striking up a conversation with the bonafide blankness that blanketed him.

"I guess this could be Limbo, right? I really wasn't all that **evil**, after all. Looking back, I never even really killed anyone. Well... there was that guy... but he had it coming. And the wounds weren't life threatening, anyway. Okay, and there** was** that thing with the kid and the crowbar, but I **almost** felt really bad about that afterward. I did that city **way** more good that I did bad. I gave them Batman... and the **real** Harvey Dent. And a better class of criminals, too... almost. I think I died in the end, though. Shame about this suit..." he fingered the tattered lapel and scoffed, "So much for a million dollar stitch-job..."

He stopped and looked up from his feet, hopelessly expecting more nothing.

However, what he saw instead was an unkempt street and a dark dingy alleyway. He glanced down at himself; his purple suit was again in pristine order and his shoes were no longer beated and scuffed. He ran his hands through his scraggly, greasy-green hair, but found it to be clean and thick and rather bouncy.

"Bouncy?!" he shouted at the sky with a sneer, turning from the alley and again through his hands out with a yell, "What is this, _What Dreams May Come_?!"

"It's the Funny Man!" a gruff voice called out from the alley. Footsteps echoed in the cramped space between the Gotham Theatre and the apartment building beside it, alerting the Joker to an approaching person.

The Prince spun on his heel and cocked an eyebrow at the approaching man, licking his heavily rouged lips and smirking when he at last recognized the figure. "Ah, it's the **Batman**. We may not have gotten that padded cell together, but at least we've got an eternity. Like I said, Batty, **you** complete me."

"What are you talking about?" the masked man scoffed and clamped a hand down on the Joker's shoulder, giving him a jarring shake, "What have you been drinking, little brother?"

"Look, I know you're probably all upset about that whole thing with Miss Dawes," he licked his lips and smirked again, "I've gotta tell you, it's not my fault. I'm not the one who rigged it all. I was locked up, as you know, when the whole thing happened."

"Did you forget to take your meds again, Spaz?" a pretty blonde approached from the alley, dusting the street residue off her white lab coat and pinstriped slacks, "Where is all this** Miss Dawes** crap coming from? Who's **she**, Bruce, ex-girlfriend?"

"I think he's just been at the bottle again," the 'Batman' shook his head and rolled his eyes, patting the Joker's shoulder before sauntering toward the young woman, "We all know how our little Joker can get after a few rounds with his buddies Jack and Jim."

"Alcohol?" the Prince laughed forcefully out loud, slapping a gloved hand to his knee, "You think a simple** shot** did this to me? This is a **life-long** process... Say, do you want to know how I got my scars?"

"Look, kiddo, we all know the **real** story," the blonde shot him an incredulous look, crossing her arms, "You were playing 'Pirates' in the living room with Bruce, and you were the one who thought it would be a great idea to make it as **real** as possible. So, you grabbed the kitchen knife and held it in your teeth, like all the **real** pirates do. Then, Bruce hit you with a pillow from behind, you hit the sofa with your face, and **bam**- blood everywhere. Three weeks of stitches simply fixed your mouth enough so you could eat without your food falling out of your cheeks. Your dad didn't want to get grafts becaust they felt there was a lesson to be learnt in having to live with those happy little scars. That's it. For the sake of **reality** in a child's **game**. One month after Bruce took a header down the well; everyone thought you just wanted the attention."

"Bruce?" the Joker guffawed, turning away from the pair, tears running down his face from the laughter which he could not bear to hold in, "**Bruce**? Next thing you're going to tell me is that I'm actually the **second** heir to the Wayne fortune, because the **only** Bruce you could **possibly** be talking about is **the** Bruce Wayne... which would fit... It was Mr. Wayne's penthouse apartment. **Mr. Wayne's** little woman who'd fallen for Harvey. And the way he threw himself after her... the **Batman** is... **Bruce Wayne**! Well..." he spun back around, a frenzied smile on his painted face, "Doesn't that just take the cake? Hey, Batman, **you're** Bruce Wayne! And who's this pretty little thing? Your plucky young sidekick?"

"Wayne? We're not the heirs to the **Wayne** fortune. We're the heirs of a long line of **butlers** to the Wayne family. Pennyworth, little brother, **Pennyworth**," the Batman chuckled throwing one arm around the woman's waist and the other about the Joker's shoulders, "I think he's on something **other** than the Boozer's Express. What'd you take, kiddo? Coke, acid, meth?"

"Or maybe something's **really** wrong, Bruce," she looked up at the caped criminal, furrowing her brows, "I'm kind of an expert in psychological issues. What if he's--"

"It's just another cry for attention, Harleen," the Bat replied offhandedly, jostling the purple-suited Prince, "Isn't it, little brother? Just upset because the Big Bad Bat is all over the front page, and you're just **mentioned** as the **sidekick**?"

"Something here is very... very..." he pulled himself out of the caped crusader's grasp and quickly stalked down the alley, sneering, "**Wrong**."

* * *

_**Arkham Asylum-- OR**_

_**4:15 am**_

"It's a miracle he survived that fall," explained the masked surgeon to the golden-haired doctor waiting just outside the operating room; he plied off his gooey rubber gloves and tossed them into the biohazard rubbish bin, "I'm not sure how well he's going to recover at this point, but we've got him heavily sedated for now. We'll call you when he wakes up, Miss Quinzel."

"Thank you," she sighed, casting a glance at the battered and bloodied man lying on the table inside the room; she shuddered at his state. She could hardly tell the difference between preexisting scars and the fresh wounds; tears in his clothing and tears in his flesh all meshed tother in a motley mess. His face terrified and disgusted her. He was terribly mutilated, the worst marring his potentially attractive face; there were dark bruises about his eyes and half-dried blood was caked on his lips and cheeks. Or was that paint? "**If** he wakes up, you mean?"

"He's a fighter; he'll wake up," the surgeon patted her back after stripping off the operating coat, then slicked his hair back and smiled, "It's only a question of **when**."

* * *

(A/N: So, back in the saddle again. I'm starting a new story without finishing up all the old ones. So sue me. Not really... could I just get off with a slap on the wrist for this one??? Anyway, it's a bit blurry at the beginning, I guess, so I'll clear a few things up really quick: 1) this is a story that I'm actually writing for a comic that I'm drawing, which is why this is "issue #1" not "chapter 1", 2) "**Bang**" illustrates a shot being fired by the SWAT team which flooded the building where the Joker had staked himself during his last scene in "DARK KNIGHT"-- remember, at this point the Joker is suspended over Gotham and laughing, 3) This is my way of cleaning up the whole "How do we take care of the Joker now that Heath is [sob] gone?". Hope that helps a bit; if not feel free to comment in that regard, or send me a message. R&R as always. Much love, Lexxi)

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**_end transmission_**


	2. Issue 2: the First Date

**Ethereal Nonsense**

_Issue #2: The First Date_

* * *

And there was a **bang**.

And another.

And still another.

After the fourth, he finally awoke, sneering at the alarm clock which was blaring in time with the knocking at his door.

"Puddin-Pie, it's time to wakey-wakey!"

He pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over, facing the wall instead of the light that streamed through the open door. He felt an arm slip around his waist and someone's lips tickle at his ear. The Prince pulled away again, groaning in response to the unwelcomed affection.

"Mister J," she shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him from his slumber, "It's time to get up. There's crime to be afoot!"

"Bats only come out at night," he replied, tugging away from the girl, but finally turning over to face her. He was somewhat surprised at her slim and fetching harlequin appearance. Her tight black and red suit was strikingly familiar, yet unknown to him all the same. Whoever she was, she seemed okay enough. At least she had her head on straight; crime was indeed afoot. Someone had robbed him of his iconic purple suit and dumped him in some alien apartment with no memory of when, how, or why.

"But Puuud-ding," she pouted, sticking out her glossy, crimsoned bottom lip, emanating a sort of childish innocence, "It's time to get up."

"Aaaaaalright," he sighed and checked under the blanket to see exactly what he was wearing. Silky violet pants clothed his bottom half, while his torso was left bare. "Where's my suit… _pudding_?"

"Mister J," she happily cried, throwing her arms around his neck, "You called me Puddin'!"

"Where's my suit?" he repeated, shrugging her arms from his shoulders, "That's a million-dollar stitch job. Cheap, yes; easy to get, no."

"I just got it dry-cleaned," she pointed to a chair over which a plastic-wrapped purple pantsuit was draped, "You had a few bloodstains on it."

The Prince of Pranks stood up warily, running his fingers through his oily hair and licking his bottom lip; more out of habit that apprehension, however. He approached the chair and reached for the suit. The plastic fell away as he lifted it all up on the hanger and sniffed.

"Whose blood?" he looked over at the young woman curled up on the bed, cocking an eyebrow. He slowly began dressing while awaiting the answer.

She sat up slowly and stretched, leisurely conjuring up the counter to the question. "Bruce something-or-other. You said he killed your dad or someone. The spatter was a bit tacky, and I thought you might like the old sweat stains taken out too."

"I never did like my father," he mumbled as he buttoned the pale-purple shirt and green vest, "Drunken fiend. Murderer. Terrible cook. Couldn't take a joke to save his life…"

"I thought he was the guy who saved this city from hell," she commented, striding toward him, "Didn't he build that train and Wayne tower?"

"No, no, no," the Joker shook his head and began fumbling with his tie, which he had quite suddenly forgotten how to tie, "That's the **Wayne** family, hence the name. I'm not… **Bruce**? As in **Bruce Wayne**. I killed Bruce Wayne because he killed my **father**… who was actually a fiend; not the glorious guy you're talking about… And **Bruce Wayne** is **Batman**… but I wouldn't kill Batman, because Batman is my other half; he completes me; he's just **too much fun to kill**… and… Who are **you** in all of this?"

"Mister J, are you okay?" she had finished knotting the tie and brushed the straggly hair away from his face, "Can you even hear me?"

"Who are you?!" he shouted at her, his hands raised skyward, as though begging the question of God himself.

"You really don't recognize your Harley Quinn? Puddin', don't you remember me?"

"What is wrong with this city?" he demanded, suddenly grasping her wrists and jerking her closer, "Yesterday it was you and Bruce Wayne… no. Bruce **Pennyworth**… claiming I was **Batman's brother**. Now I'm the son of this city's savior… and **you're **Harley Quinn? Explains the suit, but why are you here? **What is happening to me**?!"

* * *

_Arkham Asylum_

_8:30 pm_

"I don't know if you can hear me," Dr. Quinzel leaned over the sedated man, whispering softly to him, "I just wanted to introduce myself. Not sure how effective this will be, but I thought I would get it out of the way before we begin our sessions. I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. You're in Arkham Asylum and you've been badly injured. You fell a considerable distance and managed to come away with just a few broken bones, as opposed to a quite certain death. Your spine was fractured, so you'll be off your feet for a while. I guess that doesn't really matter, though," she paused and considered her words carefully, just in case her previously painted patient could really hear her, "You're under heavy medication, so you should be okay until everything heals. We've got the best medical team calling the shots, so you will definitely--"

"Miss Quinzel, what are you doing?" a nurse approached her slowly, her arms folded and a placid smile plastered on her face, "He can't hear you dear."

"I read that people can sometimes hear what you say when they're out," she countered, "I think he might be able to."

"Your breath to waste, I guess," the nurse sighed and left the room, shaking her head.

Harleen reached for his hand, ever so hesitantly wrapping her manicured fingers around his. "You're going to be okay. I promise."

* * *

"You're gonna be okay, Mister J," Harley Quinn assured him again, clutching his hand, "I promise."

"I need ten million dollars, a machine gun, four large knives, and a nuclear warhead aimed at Wayne Tower," he stated sternly after pulling his hand out of her grasp; he continued stalking down the alley between the Gotham Theatre and the abandoned apartment building beside it. "You've got one hour."

"I'll see what I can do, Puddin'," she hugged him quickly before skipping back down the alley in the opposite direction, humming some little tune.

"Something is very, very wrong," the Prince of Pranks, the Thin White Duke of Death, the Joker once again concluded, licking at his freshly painted lips.

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**Disclaimer:** Batman and all related themes and characters are the property of DC Comics. I will not claim ownership (no matter how much I would love to) of any of the characters, especially the Joker and the associated Heath Ledger (RIP).

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**_end transmission_**


	3. Issue 3: Bang Bang, Kiss Kiss

**Ehtereal Nonsense**

_Issue #3: Bang, Bang, Kiss, Kiss_

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**Bang Bang Bang Bang**

He gasped as the shots penetrated, jarring him in his seat. He could feel the blood gush forth from his shattered left shoulder, staining his purple shirt with dark crimson. The knots binding him to the chair were cutting into his wrists and ankles; his head felt as though it had been beaten in by a solid gold brick.

"So, you're upset," he chuckled, watching the deranged officer of the law glare at him, "Understandably so. I killed a few of your buddies. Six, was it? But what are you doing here? I killed you too, if I remember correctly."

"Look, scum," the fuming copper approached him, dropping the handgun and cracking his knuckles, "You've got style, I'll give you that much. But you're just street scum. You think you've got something to prove, so you go around with your cute little purple costume and your makeup and try to rough people up. Ruffle their feathers. Well, punk, you ruffled the wrong damn feathers!"

"So you're going to beat a man who can't defend himself?" the Joker laughed again, "Sounds like **someone's **got security issues. Was daddy-dearest a big meanie? Beat up on mommy? Attack you with a **knife**?! Maybe you just weren't very popular in school, hmm?"

"Raaaaaaaaaurgh!" he threw himself toward the tied-up prankster, crushing his fists into the painted leering face. The crimson ooze seeped from the gashes laid in by his wedding band as he continued sinking his fists into the Joker as a bully would a geeky boy on a schoolyard playground.

"And the punch line is," the Prince coughed up a bit of blood as he guffawed in the officer's face, "You're just mad because I got away with it all! It's not a personal vendetta for your friends. This isn't your little bid for 'revenge is best served cold'. You're just **jealous**!"

* * *

"I'm soooo jealous, Quinzel!" Pamela sighed as she leaned against Harleen's shoulder, "I can't believe you got assigned to the Joker!"

"It's not all fun and games, Isley," the blonde shook her head, "As soon as he wakes up, there's going to be **hell**. You've seen this guy's handiwork; there's going to be a lifetime of mental scarring to sift through before I can even get anywhere. This could take **years**."

"True. But you can handle it," the redhead replied encouragingly, "You **are **the best, after all. Best of the best."

"It is kind of amazing that he's actually **here**," Harleen revealed her grin and brushed a few strands of the scraggly hair away from the Joker's unpainted face, "He's **here**, in Arkham. And **I've **been assigned to his case."

"He **is **a bit handsome," Pamela shrugged and smiled at her friend, "Once you get past the scars."

"The scars, yes," she did conquer, then thoughtfully added, "And the murderous tendencies might put a damper on the first date."

"I'm just saying, is all."

"You know what would be even more amazing than all this?" Harleen looked up from the Joker suddenly, beaming, "If we had **the Batman**, too."

"Now you're just dreaming, Harley!" Pamela giggled, "But you're right; it **would **be amazing to see who he **really **is, and **why **he runs around in a cape and tights."

"I don't think he wears tights, Pammy," the blonde laughed, "That's Superman's gig. You know, up in Metropolis?"

"True," she paused a moment and glanced at the Joker, "I always did wonder what he was hiding under all that paint."

"He could just be another guy on the street, Pam," Harleen sighed, "Scars and all that aside, of course. But he really could be just about anyone. Average Joe." She gazed at the brutally scarred cheeks, the matted green-tinted hair, the gently crimson-tinged lips, "I wonder what did it for him; what sent him off the deep end."

* * *

"Mister J!" Harley rushed to his side after crushing the hulking copper with a large clown-like hammer, "Are you okay?!"

"Fine, Harley," he shook his head and impatiently waited for her to sever the cord binding his right hand to the arm of the chair, "Perfectly fine."

"There you go, Puddin-pie," she pressed her lips to his cheek and grinned after releasing his hand from the binds, then handed him the knife so he could finish the job for himself. "What happened with **him**?"

"I guess he couldn't take a joke," the Joker released himself finally, secretly favouring his wounded left arm. He shouldered past Harley, quickly making his way to the half-opened door at the end of the disused interrogation chamber deep in the bowels of the old MCU building. "Some people just have no sense of humour."

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_**Disclaimer:** Batman and all related themes and characters are the property of DC Comics. I will not claim ownership (no matter how much I would love to) of any of the characters, especially the Joker and the associated Heath Ledger (RIP)._

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**_end transmission_**


	4. Issue 4: What Dreams May Come

**Issue #4: What Dreams May Come**

* * *

"What the HELL?!"

Harleen leapt up from her chair at the Joker's bedside, instantly placing her hand on his shoulder in hopes of staying his attempts to wrench the IV's from his arms and quickly exit the hospital room. "You're safe. You're okay."

He looked up at her suddenly and gave her a brief half-smile, letting out the slightest sigh of relief. "Harley."

"I'm **Harleen**," she corrected him gently, running her hand down his arm and grasping his hand, "Doctor Harleen Quinzel. But I suppose you can call me 'Harley' for now."

"I know who you are, _pudding_," he scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You've only been clinging to my arm for the past two weeks. I'm not going to suddenly forget it all."

"So you could hear me the entire time?" she asked, her eyes aglow as she grabbed her clipboard and began jotting down notes feverishly, "Did you dream at all? How aware of the outside world were you?"

"Harley," he chuckled at her excitement, "Of course I could hear you. You wouldn't shut up! Always going on and on and on, just **talking.**"

"I'm... sorry," Harleen whispered, loosening her grip on his fingers, "I guess I do ramble on a little more than I notice. It's just that I'm the doctor assigned to you, and you've been in a coma for so long... it was like I was talking to myself, but to you instead of me."

"I haven't been in a coma!" the Clown Prince sat up and laughed, "We've been running around Gotham for the past two weeks. Seems like every day I'm stuck into a different life-story, but it's always been you and me. Confusing as hell, but always a bag of laughs."

"Mister J, you've been in a **coma** for the past two weeks," her jade-greens grew stormy and troubled as she gazed into his deep hazel eyes, "You've been **dreaming**... about **me**, apparently. Curious."

"Are we suddenly role-playing? I know I said I wanted to get something new and different in our little ... ahem... **relationship**," he smirked, grasping her hand in his and pulling her towards himself, "But you **can** break character, Harley, just long enough to explain what the hell is going on."

"This is amazing," she sighed as she continued furiously writing on her clipboard, "Absolutely amazing."

"So, enlighten me, Doctor Quinzel," he reclined in the bed, one hand behind his head while the other remained entangled with hers, "What ever did happen to make me fall into a **two week** coma?"

"You fell," she replied simply, pulling her seat closer to the bed and sitting down, "You fell nearly fourteen stories and came away fairly unharmed. You have a hairline fracture on two vertabrae, broken ankle and coccyx, your shoulder was dislocated, but the doctors are mending all that. You should be back on your feet in no time... relatively speaking, of course."

"So, you're my **what**, then?" the Joker asked, raising both eyebrows and leering.

"I'm your psychiatrist," Harleen told him, smiling and setting her clipboard down on the bedside table, "I'm the one assigned to figuring out why everything happened the way it did, and hopefully figuring out a way to prevent such things from happening again in the future."

"Well, you already know where I got the scars, I'm sure," he remembered the multiple accounts that she'd given previously for the deep gashes in his cheeks, "So all you really want to know is where I went off the deep end."

"Eventually, yes," she nodded and leaned closer to him, "But for now, let's just start with your name. I can't go around calling you 'Mister J' forever."

_

* * *

_

Arkham Asylum

_7:25 am_

"Doctor Quinzel, please report to room twenty-three-nineteen," a voice announced over the asylum intercom, "Doctor Smith would like to speak with you about the stability of your patient."

Harleen looked up from her paper-covered desk and sighed. "Twenty-eight hours straight... I **really** need to get a life."

She slowly stood up and stretched, yawning as she did. Her research had gotten her nowhere as she tried to work out her Joker case. There were no records of who he might have been pre-Joker, and no proper records-- other than Police reports and news clips-- of his existence **as** the Joker. He had left nothing behind. No name, no residence, no family or loved ones, no paper trail whatsoever.

"Well," she mumbed as she trudged down the hall toward the Joker's room, "No one ever said it would be easy."

* * *

"Look, you can't just get up and swan off," she objected, hurrying after the Prince as he trudged down the corridor, broken IV tubes hanging from his arms, a look of pure contempt plastered across his face. "You can't leave! You're not stable enough. If you go out there right now, you'll **die**. And, not **only** because your body isn't ready for the strain, but because Arkham security will gun you down without a second thought."

"Look, Harley or Harleen or Doctor Quinzel or whoever-the-hell-you-are, this **isn't** real. None of this is really happening!" he turned and grasped her arms, jarring her slightly as he spoke, "You're not really here, I'm not really in Arkham Asylum. I'm in **hell**. I was **already** gunned down... by a SWAT team that the Batman sicced on me. I'm **dead**!"

"No!" she yelled at him, pulling her arms out of his hands and glaring at him, "The rope snapped. You **fell**. You're **alive** in Arkham Asylum. This is real."

"See? **That** is exactly what a hallucination would say," he laughed, pointing at her, "You'd try to convince me that it's all real, but it's **not**. Because I **died** that night."

"If you're dead, then why can I do this?" she asked, cupping his cheek as tears began to rise in her eyes, "**You're** here; **I'm** here. This is **real**. Believe me. I may suffer from several complexes and disorders, but necrophilia isn't one of them."

* * *

A/N: hey, all, working my but off on this series. I've got issues 6 and 7 done, just need to finish 5. It should all be up sooner or later; sooner, hopefully, rather than later. Happy reading! ~Lexxi


	5. Issue 5: the Funny Man

_Issue #5: The Funny Man_

"C'mon, Mister J, tell us another one!" Harley demanded with a giggle, clinging to his arm.

"Alright, alright," the Clown Prince raised his hands to silence them, smirking confidently, "So, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead are walking down the beach, right?" he cast a glance at Harley then Ivy, raising his eyebrows as he waited for them to take the bait. "They come across a tea pot, see? So, the redhead-- being by-far the most clever one out of them all--" he took a moment to squeeze the redhead beside him closer and wink, "-- picks up the pot and gives it a rub. Poof! Out pops a genie. He says 'You each get one wish, so choose wisely.' Ginger steps up and says 'Hey, I let you out, I get the first wish. I wish I lived in a huge mansion in Malibu.' So the Genie snaps his fingers and she's whisked away to this gigantic summer home in Malibu. You with me so far?"

Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, arms wrapped about their beloved Mister J, absolutely giddy with excitement, nodded enthusiastically and waited for him to continue.

"So, the brunette-- impressed by the red's apparent success-- steps up and says 'Hey, Genie-guy, I wish I lived in a huge mansion in Hawaii.' Genie snaps his fingers and she's whisked away to an enormous house on the North Shore," he said, waving his hands about to demonstrate the capacious dimensions of the brunette's new living arrangements. "Now, it's the blonde's turn. She steps up to the Genie, tears in her eyes. He looks down and asks, sympathetically, 'Why are you crying?' She looks up with a sniffle and says 'I just wish I had my friends back here with me!'"

Ivy was doubled over, tears in her eyes, as she laughed painfully into the Joker's purple clad shoulder; Harley was confused. She turned her head one way, then the other, trying to compute the punch-line. It just was not that funny.

"Mister J," the blonde-haired harlequin touched his forearm, a troubled look in her eyes, "That one wasn't very funny."

He cackled and chuckled and sneered and guffawed, and then started laughing all over again as Harley crossed her arms and harrumphed indignantly.

She was not amused.

The red-haired plant-lady looked up from the shoulder of the Prince of Pranks, wiping the giggle-induced tears from her eyes as she patted the shoulder she had been laughing into. "It's okay, Harley; blonde jokes aren't for everyone!"

* * *

_7:35 am_

_Arkham Asylum -- room 2319_

"Doctor Quinzel," Dr. Smith looked up from his week-old Sunday paper and smiled, "It's lovely to see you again."

"What do you want, John?" she asked, crossing her arms and glaring at him, "Come to steal this patient out from under me as well? As you did** so **well with the last two?"

"Harleen, how could you ever say that about me?" he clutched his chest, where his heart would have been if he did have a heart, and groaned with sorrow and hurt, "Really, it's quite absurd. I would never **steal** a patient of yours. Perhaps convince the board of directors that you're not suited for that particular person's best interests and advise they put a better qualified doctor on the case. You can't blame me for the fact that they generally find me to be the most qualified doctor for the cases **you** can't handle."

"One of these days, John," Harleen growled with a sneer, "One of these days all your little schemes and plots and plans for greatness are going to turn around and fold in on you; and all I'm going to do is stand back and **laugh**."

"The Joker will be mine, Doctor Quinzel," Doctor Smith stated flatly as he rose from his seat and made his way to the door, "You can bet your ass on **that**."

"Yeah, and don't let the door hit **yours** on your way out," she snarled, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

"Mister J," Harley clutched his hand and grinned as she led him down the stairs to their most recent abode, located conveniently in the basement of an old building just off the main street, "We got you a present."

"How... considerate," he smiled at her as they entered the capacious one-room underground-suite. "Is it a surprise of some sort, Harley?"

"Of course, puddin," she giggled and rested her head on his shoulder as they continued to the back of the dimly lit room. "Ivy! We're home!"

The redhead rose from her green velvet divan and smiled to the pair as she tugged at the black tarp draped over the whatever-it-was in the corner beside her seat. As the great plastic sheet slid to the floor, a solemn silence befell the threesome whilst they stood in awe of the thing.

"Well..." the Prince licked his lips and glanced down at his girls, a scoff slipped into his bemused chuckle, "It'll make a **great** conversation piece. The room **was** getting a bit... drab."

"You don't like it?" Harley looked up at him, her eyes glistening, "I knew we should have gone with the purple. We've got too much green in here already. Purple would've been a great compliment to the black and the green, and..."

"Harley, if I didn't like it," he tightened his arm around her waist, cocking an eyebrow, "I would **tell** you I didn't like it. Besides, you never know when you're going to need a bright green coffin bedecked with little black and silver bats with a nice purple satin lining. I like the green."

"Yeah," Ivy rolled her eyes, and smirked, "No idea why we didn't put it on the shopping list earlier! I'd rather have a **natural** burial. Dust to dust, you know."

"I'm glad you like it, puddin," the blonde wrapped her arms around her Joker's waist and pressed her heavily roughed lips to his white-painted cheek, "I would never be able to get a **refund** on it."

"We spent all our allowance on it, Mister J," Ivy commented as she sauntered toward them and slipped an arm around the Clown Prince's waist, pressing against him, "We've been such good girls. Maybe we could get a little extra the next time around?"

Harley looked up expectantly, her eyes sparkling with hope, "We could get ice-cream!"

"Looks like I'm outnumbered, aren't I?" he chuckled and thought for a moment, "Maybe. But this **isn't** a democracy, girls." Both smiling faces fell as the words left his painted lips. He had to say something more. They had bought him a coffin, after all; he owed it to them. "What did one snowman say to the other snowman?"

* * *

_10:23 am_

_Joe's Beanery -- a coffee shop_

"I hate riddles, Eddie," Harleen shook her head as her childhood friend waited for her answer, "You know that. I've never liked riddles."

"Aw, c'mon Harley," he pouted like the little boy he had always been, folding his arms over his chest, "You'll like this one, I promise."

"Okay," she sighed and took a sip of her coffee, "But this is the only one today, alright? Just one. I need to get back to work."

"Okay," Edward grinned and prepared himself to deliver the riddle. It really was a brilliant one; one of the best he had heard in a very long time. "What did one snowman say to the other snowman?"

"I don't know, Eddie," Harleen shook her head, concealing her smile. He certainly had a way with words; it didn't matter what he was saying, everything was always some sort of joke with her friend, Edward Nigma. "What did one snowman say to the other?"

"Smells like carrots!" he smirked, watching as her hidden grin became a brilliant, laughing smile. "See? Told you so."

* * *

(A/N: Wow... I'm just introducing all sorts of people in this thing, aren't I?! I certainly hope you readers are having as much fun reading this as I am writing it. Love you guys! R&R as always. --Lexxi)


	6. 2010

**Updates for the new year...**

The following stories are up for adoption:

A Doctor for the Doctor (this is one that I would like to be kept in the loop about by whoever adopts it)

Heart of Gold (this is one that I could just as easily write off as a dead-in-the-water story and just leave it)

A Matter of Life and Death (actually, I just need a cowriter or two to keep this one going)

Doctor Who Bloopers (again, I just need a cowriter or two or three to keep this one going)

* * *

Stories that are no longer available for adoption:

Viva Rock Vegas (adopted by "ottawawolf" -- /u/2047635/ottawawolf)

* * *

Impending updates:

Jack Who- I have revived my dead writing laptop and have recovered the final chapters of this story, which means it will soon be COMPLETE!!

Ethereal Nonsense- I'm finally getting around to finishing this one and will also be working on panels for the actual comic.

Bananas for Her- pretty much the same as Jack Who, except it's still got quite a bit of work to be done before it is COMPLETE.

* * *

Hang in there, folks. I haven't forgotten about ya!!


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